by John Avedon
V
11
Return
1977–1984
ON JANUARY 8, 1976, Zhou Enlai died. His demise was followed early in July by that of Chu The and on September 9, Mao Zedong himself passed away, completing, in nine months, a clean sweep of the triumvirate that had ruled China’s Communist Party for almost four decades. Three and a half weeks later, the Peking garrison, led by two of the PLA’s most venerable marshals, moved into the old imperial quarters at night and arrested what was soon to be known as the Gang of Four: the leaders of the extreme left wing of the Party who, under Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing, had run the country from behind the mask of an ill and aging Chairman since the death of Lin Biao in 1971. Despite the initial visibility of Mao’s designated successor, Hua Guofeng, within two years Deng Xiaoping, leader of the Party moderates, had effectively assumed power.
To many observers the shift appeared to be merely the inevitable swing of the pendulum—this time from the left back to the right wing of the party—that had pulled China through internal upheaval for thirty years. But to Tibetans, it constituted a far more significant threshold. In the early seventies the Nechung Oracle had predicted a decline in China. A second prophecy stated that Mao’s death would be followed by the rapid dissolution of all that he had built. The successive deaths of the PRC’s top leaders, complemented by the Tangshan earthquake occurring at the end of July less than a hundred miles from Peking and claiming from 150,000 to 800,000 lives (depending on the estimate), signaled to the Tibetans an irrevocable turn in the fate of nations, one, they believed, presaged the end of an era in China and with it the possibility of a new beginning for Tibet.
The first political indication came the following spring. At the end of April 1977, in a meeting with a Japanese delegation in Peking, Ngabo Ngawang Jigme stated that China “would welcome the return of the Dalai Lama and his followers who fled to India.…” Within little more than a week, Peking permitted older Tibetans in Lhasa to circumambulate both the Lingkhor and the Barkhor on Saka Dawa—the anniversary of Buddha’s birth, enlightenment and death. Soon after, families with relatives abroad were told to invite them home “now that conditions are so good.” The “good conditions” were formalized by Hua Guofeng himself, who in mid-1977 called for a full-fledged revival of Tibetan customs. Local cadres, either unaware of the new policy or simply unwilling to grant such freedoms, introduced instead a new “three antis,” entailing a nationwide wave of mass executions. Before other mixed signals could occur, the Dalai Lama replied to China’s confused but clearly concilatory moves. In comments made to the Indian press during a trip to greet the newly elected Janata Party in New Delhi, he stated that the problem of Tibet was not that of his or the exiles’ cause alone, but the happiness of all the Tibetan people. If they did not feel “happy and satisfied,” he pointed out, there was no possibility of his returning. If he were to venture home before his country’s plight was remedied, he added humorously, “the Tibetans themselves might push me out.”
China’s new leaders, however, were plainly bent on effecting a major change in Tibet’s status. On February 25, 1978, after fourteen years, Peking suddenly released the Panchen Lama. He appeared at a meeting of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference, at which, as reported by the New China News Agency, he said, “For a period of time I discarded the banner of patriotism and committed a crime. Guided by Chairman Mao’s revolutionary line, I have corrected my errors.” Only a year later, and then by chance, did news of where the Panchen Lama had been held for so long leak out. At that time, Wei Jinsheng, one of China’s leading dissidents, hung a twenty-page big-character poster on Democracy Wall. The poster stated that he had been imprisoned with the Panchen Lama in Qin Cheng Prison No. 1, China’s elite jail for top party members, located an hour and a half northeast of Peking. Life had been so intolerable there, Wei reported, that in the midst of torture the Panchen Lama (known only by his number) attempted to commit suicide. Without detailing why the attempt failed, Wei’s poster described how the Panchen Lama had refused to eat, saying to prison officials, “You can take my body to the Central Committee.” Now that he was full, the Panchen Lama had obviously agreed to work with the Party’s new leadership, but to what extent remained to be seen. For Tibetans everywhere, it was sufficient just to know that he was alive.
While the Panchen Lama’s reappearance was further proof of Peking’s intention to find a solution to the problem of Tibet, a more significant event occurred in secrecy. Through private channels, a personal emissary of Deng Xiaoping contracted Gyalo Thondup, the Dalai Lama’s elder brother, at his business office in Hong Kong. Deng’s message was plain: he wanted direct communication with the Dalai Lama. After nineteen years of open hostility, China was offering an unconditional truce. To prove his good will, Deng invited Gyalo Thondup to Peking so that he could personally relate what he wished to tell the Dalai Lama. Gyalo Thondup, though, refused to go without first obtaining his brother’s approval. “On receiving this news, my brother immediately came to visit me,” recounted the Dalai Lama. “After listening to him I said, ‘Very good. We are not followers of a foreign power and we do not have personal or hidden motives but are acting sincerely and for a just cause. So there is no problem in discussing things face to face with China. But,’ I pointed out, ‘I have nothing to say—no offer to make—beyond explaining the real situation in and outside of Tibet. After seeing the Chinese leaders and listening to their views, we will consider the next step.’ Then my brother went to China and met some Chinese, including Deng Xiaoping. And at that time Deng admitted that China had made many mistakes in Tibet. He also said that he was very much concerned about the future of the country. And finally, besides discussing the general problem, he specifically asked for my return. He mentioned that I would be most welcome to come back—that the Dalai Lama should work not only for the welfare of the Tibetan people but for the whole People’s Republic of China. Very good, I thought. I decided these talks and discussions were good.”
Though Tenzin Gyatso knew that much of the refugee community would oppose compromise with China, he had always considered it to be the most practical means of regaining Tibetan freedom. Since the early sixties he had stressed Tibet’s human rights over its political status, portraying his country’s dilemma not as one of opposing ideologies but as one of a people’s suffering. In fact, he often told correspondents that Marxism and Buddhism could, theoretically, be integrated, both sharing an egalitarian social ideal. By removing the issue from a strictly political arena, he had allowed room for Peking to admit its mistakes without contradicting its own dogma. Now that it had done so, he felt confident there was a base for negotiations.
Such was the situation from the Dalai Lama’s standpoint. That of China’s, however, was far more complex. To begin with, Deng Xiaoping’s overture had to be appraised in light of his general policies and beliefs. By 1978, following almost fifteen years of turmoil under the radical left line, a major liberalization was occuring in the People’s Republic. Behind it lay the goal of a modernized China that had always been crucial to the right line and now, after the failure of the radical experiment, remained the sole means for the Party to recoup its credibility. As part of this the PRC’s new foreign policy was geared to play down international tensions while the economy grew. In Tibet’s case, the international legacy of China’s invasion remained entirely negative. What had once been a tranquil border now pitted Asia’s two giants, India and China, against one another in a confrontation that not only sapped vast reserves of men and capital, but also held the potential, however remote, of a renewed conflagration which could embroil almost half of the human race. More immediately, a strong opposition abroad continued to threaten legitimization of Chinese rule in Tibet and, in Peking’s viewpoint, remained a dangerous weapon in the hands of New Delhi. Finally, the question of Tibet cast a shadow over China’s most troublesome foreign concern—the Nationalist government on Taiwan. Disagreements with the Soviet Unio
n, India and Vietnam centered in large part on border disputes, were secondary when compared with the potentially fatal legacy of a China divided against itself. Unlike his left-wing predecessors, Deng recognized that Taiwan could not—in the foreseeable future—be subdued by force. Tibetan refugees speculated that Peking’s overtures to them were part of its attempt to convince Taiwan that reunification was possible. Inversely, they surmised that China wished to destabilize the Tibetan diaspora by removing the object of its antagonism—an intractable Chinese government. Whatever its ulterior aims, it was evident that the cost of Peking’s occupation of Tibet had become prohibitive. While annexing Tibet had successfully closed China’s “back door” and given it a dominant position in Central Asia, the CCP’s leadership now seemed aware that it had not come near to fulfilling the invasion’s other goals. The great resources of Xizang, “The Western Treasure House,” were there; their exploitation remained elusive. In three decades, China had been able to obtain only what it could take with little effort—the rich skim of wealth coating the barrier of permafrost protecting the even greater treasure below; liquid currency from centuries of accumulated wealth in Tibet’s monasteries; lumber from Kham; livestock from Amdo. No matter how badly the PRC coveted the vast mineral reserves of the plateau, its new leaders had to ask themselves when and how would they ever obtain it. Unless subsidized at tremendous expense, large-scale settlement was out of the question. Even after a decade of living in Tibet many Han immigrants continued to suffer from severe health problems due to the altitude: the instance of heart failure, high blood pressure, miscarriage and stillbirth was far higher than in the homeland. The administrative structure running Tibet had stalled as well. China’s 80,000 Tibetan cadres—10,000 to 40,000 of whom, by varying estimates, belonged to the party—were, despite every effort at indoctrination, both suspect and inefficient. In its most sacred task of winning a broad base of popular support, the Party itself had unquestionably failed. The figureheads of the “patriotic upper strate,” such as the Panchen Lama and Ngabo Ngawang Jigme, were also unsuited for a governing role. Who then could lead Tibet, in a way that the Tibetans would follow, save the Dalai Lama? And just how necessary it was to have an acceptable accepted leader, if China indeed was to relinquish control, was clear from the most recent record of revolts.
Looked at plainly, “class enemies” abounded. Following the massive 1972 revolt, minor outbreaks had continued without stop. The eighteen districts of Kham that had turned into battlefronts overnight during the Cultural Revolution, along with the still fierce Goloks in Amdo, presented such a headache for the Chinese that the likelihood of ever fully subduing the wild inhabitants of eastern Tibet seemed small. As recently as 1977 a convoy of over a hundred PLA trucks had been ambushed on the Yunna–Tibet highway, looted and burned. In Central Tibet as well trouble continued. In a seven-month period between January and August 1976, Radio Lhasa issued twenty-six broadcasts—almost one a week—condemning subversive activity in the TAR. Sabotage by Tibetan cadres of senior rank was also on the increase, as evidenced by the severing in 1976 of a top secret underground cable linking the tracking station at Dhingri with Dakmar in southwestern Tibet. To discourage such acts, terror was consistently employed, primarily through executions. The “three antis” of May 1977—condemning “petty business, pilferage and bad elements”—resulted in thousands of arrests followed by a wave of executions, 20 alone reported to have been publicly executed in Lhasa on August 1 (PLA day). In the long run Tibet’s instability presented more of a problem than that of merely policing its six million inhabitants. Despite their small numbers, Tibetans occupied almost a quarter of the PRC’s land mass. China’s other minorities, most of whom, like the Tibetans, occupied sensitive border regions, continued to chafe under Han domination and would, given the chance, eagerly follow a Tibetan bid for greater freedom.
With the Dalai Lama’s return, perhaps Tibet could rebuild itself and begin to offer its abundant resources to the mainland. For internal as well as external reasons then, Peking’s desire for a dialogue appeared to be the only untried course remaining to it.
Having considered the situation in depth, the Dalai Lama entered the delicate game at hand. Little more than a week after the Panchen Lama’s reappearance, he tested China’s avowed leniency by calling, as part of his regular March 10 speech, for free travel in and out of Tibet. His appeal was heeded. In June 1978, Peking made the stunning announcement that for the first time since 1959 Tibetans would be permitted to contact and then actually visit their relatives abroad. In exile, Tibetans waited anxiously for letters informing them whether their parents, brothers and sisters were alive or dead. Before the mail began, Tien Bao himself led the first trade delegation to Nepal since 1954, to start the process of opening the sealed region.
On November 4, the Chinese took their next step. A grand “Release Meeting” was held in Lhasa at which thirty-four Tibetan prisoners were displayed. The so-called “last of the rebel leaders,” most of them were officials of the old Tibetan government, confined since the 1959 revolt. In photographs taken to publicize the meeting, the men sat weeping, incongruously dressed in new clothes and fur-lined Tibetan hats, with rolls of money and certificates of freedom clutched in their hands. Chinese periodicals reported that, having taken a month-long tour of the “new Tibet,” they were now to be assisted in obtaining jobs and even going abroad if they so chose. After thanking the People’s Republic for “educating them,” they addressed the real purpose of the meeting, that of inviting home, “with no digging up the past,” all “Tibetan brethren in exile.” The refugees’ reaction to this event was measured. Perceiving it as an example of the PRC’s penchant for blithely disavowing the past by the mere announcement of a change in policy, they nevertheless praised the move, hoping for their own people’s sake to encourage further liberalization. And so 1978 came to a close.
The new year opened with a carefully orchestrated series of events. Early on January 1, the People’s Republic was officially recognized by the United States. Wang Bingnan, a senior party member, publicly stated that, as a means of reuniting Taiwan with the motherland, “a Tibet-like solution” was possible. Simultaneously, the Panchen Lama called for the Dalai Lama and other exiles to return. “If the Dalai is genuinely interested in the happiness and welfare of the Tibetan masses, he need have no doubts about it,” said the Panchen Lama. “I can guarantee that the present standard of living of the Tibetan people in Tibet is many times better than that of the ‘old society.’ ” A week later, on January 8, the invitation was reaffirmed as Radio Lhasa announced that a meeting of five hundred officials of the TAR had decided to form a “reception committee” to greet visiting Tibetans from abroad. The news that China would fulfill its six-month-old pledge to permit open travel was joined, the following day, by an announcement from the newly formed Lhasa Reception Committee—an unlikely amalgam of all the chief collaborators, both people’s activists and members of the upper strata. It stated, referring to the period of Tibetan compromise in the fifties: “We would like to tell the Dalai frankly that he has done good historical work.” China, it seemed, was not only proving its “good intentions,” but hoping thereby to force reciprocal gestures on the Dalai Lama’s part, lest he appear intransigent.
On the last day of January 1979, while in Calcutta, Tenzin Gyatso responded by commenting to reporters that he was “trying to contact the Chinese embassy.” His intent, he revealed, was to open a channel to the small group of original Tibetan Communists. Concurrently, he sanctioned a plan—initiated by fifteen young men, including Tempa Tsering—to test China’s travel offer by applying for visas to Tibet. While the Chinese embassy in New Delhi worked out the details of their applications with Peking, the authorities in Lhasa granted permission for Tibetans to visit their relatives abroad for the first time since 1959. Once out, they revealed that people were allowed to circumambulate the Tsuglakhang, that meat and butter could be purchased in excess of the ration quota and that the Pota
la had been repainted, Tibetan workers secretly mixing sugar in with the whitewash as a traditional offering. Even the crows had returned to the desolate city, Lhasans having enough food now to place tormas or offering cakes on their rooftops for the birds to eat. In his speech on March 10, 1979, the Dalai Lama urged the Chinese to “accept their mistakes, the realities, and the right of all people of the human race to equality and happiness.” “Acceptance of this,” he said, “should not be merely on paper; it should be in practice.” Peking responded a week later, on March 17, by removing the “black hat” designation of 6,000 “class enemies,” while releasing 376 more prisoners—the first group, apparently, not having been the “last” of the incarcerated rebels. Though the fifteen exiles’ requests for visas were turned down, due to their having written, on the line requesting the applicant’s nationality, “Tibetan” rather than “Chinese,” a refugee living in Switzerland entered Tibet from Nepal in early May, the first exile to officially visit his home in two decades. His trip, though, was soon overshadowed by a far more dramatic development.
